Tag: Food Poem

Food Poem – Ode to Chocolate by Barbara Crooker

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I hate milk chocolate, don’t want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don’t want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave’s
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
From the Writer’s Almanac 4/11/2022

Sounds brave to taste the “cold slab of a cave’s interior, when all the stars have gone to sleep.” I might add ..when all the stars have gone to sleep over the ocean as I let a piece of dark chocolate with sea salt melt in my mouth. What is your favorite kind of chocolate?

Food Poem – Recipe for a Salad by Sydney Smith

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To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!

“Recipe for a Salad” by Sydney Smith. from the Writer’s Almanac 2/3/2022

I love the part about the onion, lurking in the bottom, animating the whole 🙂

May you be serenely full,

Hungryphil

Food Poem – Everybody Made Soups by Lisa Coffman

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After it all, the events of the holidays,
the dinner tables passing like great ships,
everybody made soups for a while.
Cooked and cooked until the broth kept
the story of the onion, the weeping meat.
It was over, the year was spent, the new one
had yet to make its demands on us,
each day lay in the dark like a folded letter.
Then out of it all we made one final thing
out of the bounty that had not always filled us,
out of the ruined cathedral carcass of the turkey,
the limp celery chopped back into plenty,
the fish head, the spine. Out of the rejected,
the passed over, never the object of love.
It was as if all the pageantry had been for this:
the quiet after, the simmered light,
the soothing shapes our mouths made as we tasted.

Lisa Coffman, “Everybody Made Soups” from Less Obvious Gods. From Writer’s Almanac 2/2/2022

Wishing you warm “quiet afters” on this snowy day in the Midwest,

Hungryphil

Food Poem – In the Produce Aisle by Kirsten Dierking

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In the vivid red
of the fresh berries,
in the pebbled skin
of an emerald lime,
in the bright colors
of things made
to be transitory,
you see the same
loveliness
you find in your own
delicate flesh,
the lines fanned
around your eyes
charming like
the burnish
of plums,
your life like
all the other
fragile organics,
your soft hand
hovering over
the succulent apple,
you reach for it,
already transforming.

Kirsten Dierking, “In the Produce Aisle”  from Northern Oracle. © 2007 Kirsten Dierking published by Spout Press. From 1/5/2022 The Writer’s Almanac

Food Poem: Living in the Body by Joyce Sutphen

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Body is something you need in order to stay
on this planet and you only get one.
And no matter which one you get, it will not
be satisfactory. It will not be beautiful
enough, it will not be fast enough, it will
not keep on for days at a time, but will
pull you down into a sleepy swamp and
demand apples and coffee and chocolate cake.

Body is a thing you have to carry
from one day into the next. Always the
same eyebrows over the same eyes in the same
skin when you look in the mirror, and the
same creaky knee when you get up from the
floor and the same wrist under the watchband.
The changes you can make are small and
costly—better to leave it as it is.

Body is a thing that you have to leave
eventually. You know that because you have
seen others do it, others who were once like you,
living inside their pile of bones and
flesh, smiling at you, loving you,
leaning in the doorway, talking to you
for hours and then one day they
are gone. No forwarding address.

Joyce Sutphen, “Living in the Body” from Coming Back to the Body from the Writer’s Almanac, 9/20/21

I eat a slice of chocolate cake every year to celebrate a loss I’ve had. This poem reminds me of living and of celebrating despite and because of loss. Some years I bake a cake to freeze slices to enjoy throughout the year. A way to keep both the sadness and the gratitude in my body.

The body is everything. Let’s promise to be in ours today.

With warmth,

Hungryphil

P.S. Next time I bake a cake for the occasion, I’ll have to take a picture to share. For now, I rely on stock photos online.

Food Poem: Breakfast by Joyce Sutphen

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My father taught me how to eat breakfast
those mornings when it was my turn to help
him milk the cows. I loved rising up from

the darkness and coming quietly down
the stairs while the others were still sleeping.
I’d take a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon

from the drawer, and slip into the pantry
where he was already eating spoonfuls
of cornflakes covered with mashed strawberries

from our own strawberry fields forever.
Didn’t talk much—except to mention how
good the strawberries tasted or the way

those clouds hung over the hay barn roof.
Simple—that’s how we started up the day.


Joyce Sutphen, “Breakfast” from First Words, Red Dragonfly. from the Writer’s Almanac, Monday 9/13/21

A simple start to the day with a loved one is so comforting. What is your favorite morning ritual?

Food Poem- Hymn to the Belly

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ROOM! room! make room for the bouncing Belly,
First father of sauce and deviser of jelly;
Prime master of arts and the giver of wit,
That found out the excellent engine, the spit,
The plough and the flail, the mill and the hopper,
The hutch and the boulter, the furnace and copper,
The oven, the bavin, the mawkin, the peel,
The hearth and the range, the dog and the wheel.
He, he first invented the hogshead and tun,
The gimlet and vice too, and taught ’em to run;
And since, with the funnel and hippocras bag,
He’s made of himself that now he cries swag;
Which shows, though the pleasure be but of four inches,
Yet he is a weasel, the gullet that pinches
Of any delight, and not spares from his back
Whatever to make of the belly a sack.
Hail, hail, plump paunch! O the founder of taste,
For fresh meats or powdered, or pickle or paste!
Devourer of broiled, baked, roasted or sod!
And emptier of cups, be they even or odd!
All which have now made thee so wide i’ the waist,
As scarce with no pudding thou art to be laced;
But eating and drinking until thou dost nod,
Thou break’st all thy girdles and break’st forth a god.

“Hymn to the Belly” by Ben Jonson. Public domain.

From the Writer’s Almanac Podcast, June 11, 2020.

This poem is dedicated to Agatha, my belly. She likes mysteries and is sometimes cranky. Due to pandemic related social isolation and coping by cooking, she has grown in the past three months. We relate to the last fragment of this 16th century poem: “thou break’st all thy girdles and break’st forth a god.”

May you make room for your belly,

Hungryphil

Food Poem- Eggplant by Richard Jones

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Eggplant

by Richard Jones

I’ve never liked the taste,

which, I think,

is a shame,

because some days

when my wife goes to work

and I walk to the grocery store,

I stand in the produce aisle,

admiring those gorgeous

purple fruits––

wine colored,

sensuously curved––

and can’t help but reach out

and pick one up, just to hold it,

so silky smooth, so luscious looking

I almost fall in love,

but then remember

who I am:

a man not fond of eggplant.

Nonetheless,

I linger and look

and there in the bin

under the misters and lights,

I find it––

the perfect eggplant,

the glossy flesh unblemished,

meat firm under the fingers,

the stem and cap

bright green.

The fruit heavy in the hand,

I place the eggplant

in my cart,

taking special care,

knowing an eggplant is delicate

and wounds easily.

I carry the grocery bag home

through a light rain

and arrange the eggplant

on a white tablecloth,

the opulent purple orb

lustrous in the window light

and quietly beautiful

as if lying on satin sheets.

Then I sit in the wing chair.

The house grows dark

as the rain falls harder

and I wait for my wife

to come home from work,

shake off her raincoat,

turn on the lamp,

and behold the eggplant.

“Eggplant” by Richard Jones from Stranger on Earth. © Copper Canyon Press, 2018. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Writers Almanac, July 5th, 2019

https://www.spreaker.com/show/the-writers-almanac?goal=0_c98caf23a9-5abfe0bc33-75192181&mc_cid=5abfe0bc33&mc_eid=0ad47c9aab

Here’s what I’d do with a beautiful purple eggplant:

If a rainy summer day, fry sliced rounds smeared with salt, ground turmeric, and chilli pepper. Eat with flaky paratha/ flat bread.

OR,

If hot and sunny summer day, grill it until soft. Smash and mix it with salt, lemon juice, sliced onions, chopped cilantro, chopped thai chili pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil or mustard oil. Serve with bread or rice and light daal.

You?

Food Poem by Jim Daniels

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This poem is not directly about food. The imagery of two siblings over a kitchen sink surrounded by leftovers makes me smile. Maybe you will too.

Brushing Teeth with My Sister after the Wake

at my kitchen sink, the bathroom upstairs
clogged with family from out of town

spending the night after the wake
and the after-wake—cold beverages

have been consumed and comfort food,
leftovers bulging both the fridge

and the minifridge. In our fifties, both
half-asleep half-awake, we face each

other. My sister’s smile foams white
down her chin at the end of a day

on which no one has smiled. We laugh.
We may never brush our teeth together again.

No mirror down here to see our haggard faces.
We rinse, we spit. As we were taught.

“Brushing Teeth with My Sister after the Wake” by Jim Daniels from The Middle Ages. © Red Mountain Press, 2018.

From the Writer’s Almanac

 

Food Poem – Gravy by Raymond Carver

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Today’s Food Poem by Raymond Carver uses gravy to describe feelings of gratitude, the extra sauce of life. Carver is such a master of little things and moments. Maybe it’ll add to your “gravy” today. Enjoy!

No other word will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure gravy. And don’t forget it.”

“Gravy” by Raymond Carver from All of Us. © Knopf, 1998. From the Writer’s Almanac today, July 25th, 2017.

Image from Food Network and Alton Brown’s Best Gravy Ever Recipe